Dead Air
by Dosko
Summary: When heroes are being murdered in Tokyo after Stain has already been apprehended, rookie pro hero Frostfall and vigilante hero Copycat find themselves trapped in solving an elusive villainous plot to carry out Stain's ideals and rid the world of all fake heroes. (An original story that draws from MHA and MHA:V, featuring several original characters in addition to canon characters.)


Chapter 1: The Witching Hour

An amber glow, brisk air, and patient silence covered the entirety of Hosu. Passive light emanating from the windows of tens of thousands of subdued buildings scraped the evening hours outside. Near total absence in the streets and settled dust lining the sidewalks anticipated the distant commotion of the morning. The frigid evening aura was only shattered by the occasional closing door and winding car, but it was now most recently disturbed by a young face and cold hands stumbling out of a bar alone. He lingered in the doorway for a moment to force a smile and wave goodnight to the cluster of his fans left inside the bar before heading out into the night by himself. Before making another move, he took a deep breath and tested the evening in his lungs to confirm its spirit. The first clumsy step away from the bar nearly nearly sent him tumbling down to the concrete before erratic, flailing arms could steady his demeanor. Dressed in a sleek and mostly clean hero outfit, his stocky frame gently measured the stability of the ground with each additional leaden step toward his home.

A cocktail of sparse moonlight and weak street lighting illuminated the glossy navy blue of his body armor and silvery sheen of his hair. Not a fragment nor unfortunate memory of the foreign smile he wore only moments ago could be found in his face as his absent stare bored through the black and orange horizon of the city. Every step forward exacerbated and surrendered to the growing dread on his shoulders and the vile chasm in his gut. Before he succumbed, equal amounts of lethargy and defeat scoured through multiple pockets until a chilled metal flask was recovered, and he quickly drained of the last few ounces of alcohol hiding inside. He choked on the fire in his breath as he swallowed, but covered his mouth to prevent any of his drink of being wasted on the neutral pavement. As soon as he stabilized his lungs, he stuffed the flask back into his pockets and traded for a beaten pair of earbuds and a music player. Indifferent legs took slower steps forward and swayed in the mild wind while he crammed the earbuds into his ears and searched for sprawling velvet noise to transport him. Sprinting jazz began coursing through his head, correcting the instability in his body and invigorating his stride as he continued toward his home. The pace of the snare drums and saxophones swimming through his head augmented his feet into spastic trotting that acquiesced to the seductive vibration and wailing. A shallow, stupid grin broke out on his face, bolstering drunken fingers to slap at his pockets to turn up the volume until every outside sound and dangerous emotion was buried by fluid cacophony. Numbed by isolation, vodka, and tailor-made sound, his muscles at last relaxed until he couldn't feel anymore.

The occasional passing car gave him slight caution to stiffen his spine and wear a normal demeanor, but he disrobed and threw off the performance the moment he tasted proper privacy once more. Wild brass massaged his mind and his pace quickened with the chaotic end of a song, but an awkward step to the rhythm caused him to lose his balance and fall to the ground on his elbows and knees. Sour laughter shot out from his mouth and held him fast to the ground for a detached minute until he bothered to correct himself and drag his vision back up to rejoin the rest of the world. Through glazed eyes he noticed a puddle on the sidewalk ahead of him, and wondered where it may have come from in the months absence of any rain. He propped himself back up with one sturdy arm and trudged over to the alleyway that the pool was coming from. The fingers on the ground sticking out from the side of the alley resting in the puddle drew silent alarm as soon as he noticed them, and his body stiffened as he pieced together what was on the ground waiting around the corner. A deep breath labored to sober him as much as possible, and he tiptoed slow enough around the corner to make sure not to stumble and fall into the crime. He paused to absorb the unkempt violence on the ground of the alley: three bodies lay on the ground, all facedown in pools of their own blood. He could see that the nearest was a burly suited man, still loosely holding a knife in his right hand, but it was too dark to make out any more details of the other two without getting closer. Hot sick rose to the top of his throat in spite of the ruthlessness he had witnessed in work before then, and considerable effort was made to keep it down and investigate further. Ginger steps regulated by growing anxiety carried him closer into the darkness and toward the bodies. Reflex pulled his music player back out of his pocket to use the screen to shed some light on the bodies. To the left, the dim glow revealed a second suited man featuring a grotesque exit wound on the back of his head, surrounded by spattered bits of skull and brain on the ground still soaking up the generous blood around him. To his right, his blood ran cold when he saw a woman in a hero costume who had also been shot in the head in an identical manner. Untamed fear both pushed and prevented his hand from turning over the body to see who she was. After immeasurable apprehension and uninhibited panic wore him down, his hand firmly pulled her body right side up. In the few years that he had been working, he had come to recognize almost all professional heroes in the region instantly, but he had never seen the woman in front of him before. Her winter hair and tundra eyes coupled with the grit and fury inherent to her face, even in death, would be features too unmistakable to belong to any professional well-known hero without being able to recognize them.

A harsh crackling next to him barely rose above the winding rhythm coming from his earbuds, and he ripped them out of his ears to pay closer attention to it. He shined the light from the music player in the direction of the hissing to see a handheld radio on the belt of the woman. A calm yet urgent voice cut in and out of the radio speaker, relaying information about police units and local emergency calls taking place in the area. Intrigue wrinkled his brow as he reached forward and took it from her belt. He couldn't ever recall professional heroes working side-by-side with the local police in their daily operations, much less any that would be invested in doing so. He stood up and continued inspecting the radio, darting his eyes back and forth between the object and the dead woman on the ground below him.

"Freeze! Drop the weapon!" Blinding lights erupted behind him and illuminated the grotesque reality of the death surrounding him while several piercing shouts flung various commands at him. He could finally see the demons hiding in the sinful red surrounding him. He continued standing motionless, still holding onto the radio and his music player in each hand. The alcohol in his bloodstream kept his movements slow as he finally and gradually turned to face the light, thankful that his drinking was preventing him from shivering with unbridled tension Several police cars and officers were pointing their flashlights and firearms squarely at him while terror caused him to accidentally drop both the radio and the music player simultaneously.

"Hands behind your head!"

"On the ground, now!"

The wheels had already been put into motion without him, and he was powerless to stop them at that point. He complied with every shout and command, kneeling down and placing his hands on his neck. A plaintive stare and innocence were just barely enough to mask his emotions in the wake of the death surrounding him and the accusations that were sure to follow. Two officers came forward with handcuffs and pressed him firmly into the ground with their feet as they restrained him. He didn't dare move his head, instead focusing all of his attention on the blood pooled at his knees. The damp murder clung to his knees and slithered up his spine in potent nerves.

"Frostfall? Is that Frostfall?" He could hear one of the police officers ask under the shouting of the others. Initial shock was beginning to wear off, and he winced at the idea that his name would be attached to the death of two men and an unknown hero. A third officer came forward and stopped in front of him, shoes inches from his face.

"Frostfall, is it really you?" A man asked him, his silhouette buried in the lights behind him. The man inched closer to him and knelt down to look him in the face. Of all the people to find him in such a situation, it drove the most shame possible for it to have been Detective Tsukauchi. Tsukauchi looked into his face for a lifetime before finally asking him, "What the Hell happened here?"


End file.
